A Cowboy's Work Is Never Done
by JaganshiKenshin
Summary: Hiei keeps telling himself, 'I am NOT a cowboy'  But life has other ideas.
1. 1: Like A Rhinestone Youkai

Disclaimer: Kenshin does not own the Yuu Yuu Hakusho characters (they are the property of Togashi Yoshihiro et al), and does not make any money from said characters. Don't sue.

What Kenshin does own, however, are all the original characters

in this work. Any attempt to "borrow" these characters will be

met with the katana, or worse.

The events in _Idiot Beloved_ take place shortly after the Dark

Tournament; _Firebird Sweet_ directly follows that timeline. I strongly suggest you read those fics in order so that certain character traits and development make sense.

Title: A Cowboy's Work Is Never Done: C1 (Like A Rhinestone _Youkai_)

Author: JaganshiKenshin

Genre: Action/Adventure, Humor

Rating: K/PG-13 for anime-style fight scenes

Summary: On a commercial shoot, Hiei is surprised by not only an ill-fitting costume, but someone who poses a threat.

A/N: This story takes place within the time-frame of _The Book of Cat With Moon_-here we see Hiei in his role as an actor in commercials (established in _Firebird Sweet_ and _Operation Rosary_, though this story isn't a 'sequel' to either _Cat With Moon_ or _OR_). Thanks for reading this, and please review!

A Cowboy's Work Is Never Done (C1: Like A Rhinestone _Youkai_)

by

Kenshin

"It's tight." Hiei stepped out from behind the nominal privacy screen. "Really tight." In fact, he had barely been able to squeeze into the outfit.

"Sorry." The intern, Dexter, gave Hiei an apologetic glance. A scrawny kid with hair like rusty Brillo and a voice that still broke, Dexter scowled at his pencil and clipboard, as though holding them personally responsible for the mix-up. "I thought for sure we had your measurements," Dexter went on. His phone trilled. He yanked it from a pocket. "Yes?" His already-pasty complexion paled a shade or two as he listened to the other party. "Has it on now. Says it's tight."

"Really tight," Hiei added.

The company that had just hired him, Palomar Productions, was housed in an undistinguished brick building that backed up to a park. The park's proximity was nice. The costume was not.

Sometimes, Hiei needed a vacation. Sometimes, he got sick of working. Even got sick of fighting. Then he would recant, lecturing himself that he was born to fight, that anything else was a waste of time. _Yet here I stand, dressed up like a-_

"Costume," he reminded Dexter.

"But, Madam Fifi-" Dexter shut his eyes as Madam Fifi's coarse bellow blasted out of the phone.

Shutting his eyes sounded good to Hiei. The dusty all-purpose room resembled a cavernous church basement decorated by an evil scientist with rabies.

Bile-green cinderblock walls. A stage on the north wall ready to be set-dressed. Battered upright piano in the middle of the stage. In case of emergency, lift lid for cheap musical score. Rounding out the appointments was a jumble of sound equipment, lighting, and props half-hidden beneath gray tarps. Adjacent to the stage, an ancient, foxed mirror lurked behind the tattered 'privacy' screen.

Hiei was used to the joys of costume fittings. Countless times back in Japan, he stood like a stuffed toy surrounded by seamstresses plucking at him, apologizing for their very existence about every fifteen seconds.

This was, however, Northern California, and different.

For example, there were no apologetic seamstresses, and 'Madam Fifi,' a fat, fifty-something, hatchet-faced chainsmoker from Kansas City, had merely pointed to the rack holding Hiei's costume before lumbering out for lunch.

"B-but Madam-" sputtered Dexter.

Hiei yawned. "Useless." The day before, he had met with the producer, Chuck Casio, having gotten the job through the glories of nepotism. The screenwriter/director took the meeting, too: an unctuous blond who affected a deep British accent. In an office the size of a bathroom stall, they had explained the project.

All Hiei got out of the meeting was _Blah blah blah COWBOY._

He did know they were shooting a sixty-second internet spot for Rhinestone Beer, which tasted like swamp water that someone had waved a sheaf of hops at.

Madam Fifi bellowed on. Dexter began to twitch.

Back in Japan, Hiei had a reputation as a one-take wonder. This meant struggling beforehand to divine the intent behind any given director's long, rambling and often incoherent monologues.

If you looked at it a certain way, the struggle to figure out what the guy wanted was a lot like trying to read an enemy's battle moves and out-maneuver him.

Hiei squinted at Dexter; his razor-keen instinct informed him that Dexter, half a head taller than Hiei and some 20 pounds lighter, wasn't the enemy.

An exit door a few feet to Hiei's left opened on a concrete stairwell leading first to the parking lot, then the park, where Dexter would occasionally duck out to light a cigarette.

Ducking out also sounded good to Hiei.

While Dexter mopped his sweaty brow, Hiei glanced at the windows. Low viewing angle. Couldn't see much of the park.

"Madam says come to the phone," squeaked Dexter. Prying the phone from his ear, he held it out like it was a dog toy and Hiei was the dog.

"Can't."

Dexter's lip quivered.

"They'll have to let the costume out if they want me to move," Hiei said. "Or wheel me on a handcart."

"But we're the only ones here."

"Naturally." Everyone else was off-premises on extended lunch break.

It didn't occur to Dexter to walk the phone over to him. Hiei studied the costume that kept him from crossing a few steps.

These days, when icons of courage were out of style, it wasn't surprising that the Old West had been bastardized to suit Rhinestone Beer's purposes.

The costume was rendered in a black satin-looking fabric, with white piping down the sleeves, a dozen pearl buttons, a lot of silly white fringe on the chest and outseams. There was also a gun belt and white hat.

It was a Hollywood gunslinger's outfit, not a cowboy's, but it would be expecting too much for the costume designer to know the difference.

Tucked inside the shirt, Hiei's Rosary pained him. But it was not due to the mere proximity of the Holy object.

Unblessed, a rosary is no more than an inert string of 59 prayer beads. Blessed by a priest, it can drive away demons. This particular model, hand-carved from rosewood, had been a gift from Shayla Kidd. Shayla Kidd had been given it by the uncle who wasn't the entertainment lawyer, rather the noted demonologist Thomas McNeil.

It wasn't the Rosary's Holy Light that pained Hiei, for alone of virtually all _youkai,_ he could bear its fiery touch.

The shirt itself was so tight that the beads and Crucifix bit into him. And their outline printed clearly against the shiny fabric, as though some multi-segmented creature was stuggling to burst from his flesh.

Good thing they weren't shooting today.

Every time Hiei took a breath, not only did the Rosary hurt, but the shirt's pearl buttons strained to pop, the studded belt promised to cut him in two, and the fringed pants threatened to have him singing soprano.

Dabbing his upper lip, Dexter quavered, "Madam says the accessories will help."

Hiei jammed on the ten-gallon white hat, which was a gallon short, and left him feeling like an iron band was clamped to his head. He strapped on the gun belt. For a prop, the gun belt was heavy. For a costume, the costume looked idiotic.

"They help, right?"

"They don't."

"But Madam Fifi says the costume has to fit."

"Madam's not here squeezed into it like a sausage."

"She says it's made of a premium blend of 95 percent flexible Egyptian cotton and ten percent breathable French spandex."

"I don't care if it's made of melted diamonds. How can a substance be a hundred and five percent of itself?"

Dexter stitched his rust-colored brows. "I don't get it."

"Me neither. Hat's cutting off circulation to my brain."

"Madam Fifi says the hat is essential."

Madam Fifi was probably at that very moment glued to her copyrighted seat at the local Brew and Moo.

At least _she_ was getting fed. Hiei hadn't eaten since leaving the Kidd Estate two hours ago, which did nothing to improve his mood. The high-wire metabolism that enabled him to move at warp-speed suddenly seemed a burden. He grumbled, thinking mostly of his empty stomach, but also of the costume.

Dexter gave him a sickly grin. "Madam Fifi says the costume will ease up once you move around."

"Move?" Hiei didn't look so much like a cowboy as a disgruntled Japanese _youkai_ crammed into an outfit designed for a nine-year-old American girl. One who was pretending to be both Roy Rogers _and_ Dale Evans. "How?"

"Try to look like you're itching for a fight, Madam says."

Hiei gritted his teeth. _Shouldn't be difficult. I'm thinking of going ten rounds with_ her.

"That's the spirit," said Dexter.

"Am I supposed to be fighting with anyone?"

"You haven't read the script?"

"I find it's better that way."

"Oh, a method actor, huh?"

"You could say that." Hiei had learned from painful experience that right up until the first shot and even beyond, scripts could change at the drop of a nine-gallon hat. He had done some research on the subject of cowboys, but this shoot could morph into a chorus line of dancing beer bottles in space.

"Y'know," said Dexter, but not to Madam Fifi, "right now I'm just an intern, but what I really want to do is direct."

_You and every other part-time waiter on the planet._

Also typical for an intern, Dexter was overworked and unpaid. And looking like he needed a cigarette.

_I'd need one, too, if it would get me out of here._

And if divining what a director wanted could be taken as a metaphor for battle, then squeezing himself into a tight cowboy suit could be a metaphor for squeezing himself into a life that did not fit: staying in the human realm, always on patrol, with a family to both provide for and fear for.

_Maybe I need a fight, and I don't mean duking it out with Madam Fifi_.

Hiei gave up the battle of the costume. No use standing around waiting for the Brew and Moo to run out of cow. He turned toward the privacy screen and tried to pry open the top button of his shirt.

_Ow._

A pain like an ice-pick attached to a cattle prod struck one side of Hiei's head, crackled through, and shot out the other.

It wasn't the effects of the nine-gallon hat. It was how he sensed _youki_.

He looked up. For a flash, there was a face pressed against the narrow basement window. A face that, in Hiei's fleeting impression, resembled a cross between a troll and an orc.

It wasn't Madam Fifi returning early from lunch. It was the _youkai_ he had sensed.

The creature saw Hiei. It bolted. He thought, _it's got nothing to do with me-let someone else handle it._ Then: _Well, here's your excuse to bail._

Yanking off his cowboy hat, Hiei flung it at the astonished Dexter.

"Hold this," he snapped, then tore out after the demon.

-30-

(To be continued: Who is that varmint?)


	2. C2: A Fistful of Demon

Please see Disclaimer in Chapter 1

Title: A Cowboy's Work Is Never Done: C2 (A Fistful of Demon)

Author: JaganshiKenshin

Genre: Action/Adventure, Humor

Rating: K+/PG-13 for anime-style fight scenes

Summary: With a costume so tight he can barely move, Hiei gives chase.

A/N: Blahblahblah COWBOY... but what Hiei wasn't telling you is that the Western motif is big in Japan: a growth industry that includes dude ranching, line dancing clubs, target shooting events, and even bull riding. If I have character sketches they will be up on my LiveJournal (link on homepage). As always, thanks for reading this, and please review!

A Cowboy's Work Is Never Done (C2: A Fistful of Demon)

by

Kenshin

_I'm not a cowboy_, Hiei thought. _Never was, never will be._

So what am I doing lighting out after this varmint?

He hit the metal door, banged it open, thundered up the concrete steps to the ground level parking lot. Then he paused, seeking his target.

_Youkai_, demons, whatever you call them, are not the fallen angels of Biblical history. Hiei had met one of the non-fallen variety-the great, black-winged entity he called The Stranger. There could be no mistaking one of **those** mighty beings for a mere _youkai._

_Youkai_ are in fact creatures of flesh and blood. Hiei himself could be hurt, killed, hampered by tight clothing.

No, perhaps 'monster' would be a better descriptive term. Yet Holy Water does work against them.

Whether monster or demon or varmint, there he was. Just about thirty feet ahead, wearing a tall black hat and a loose trench coat, running for the park like his life depended on it, which likely it did. He was even now disappearing into the trees.

"Hey, you," Hiei shouted, "let's see your Green Card!"

The perp didn't slow down.

Hiei knew he had a rep among _youkai_ as a psycho killer who would cut you up soon as look at you. In reality-though he had once veered close to that description-he was now careful, quiet, diligent. So on a hot September day, Hiei gave chase.

_This bastard could be completely innocent. Not every demon's up to no good. _

_But then, why's he running?_

Within a few steps, Hiei realized that 'hot' was the word for his pursuit only in the sense that he was shipping sweat.

He didn't flick so much as labor, dart so much as strain. The cowboy boots felt like implements of torture, and were in no way designed for walking, much less running.

_Costume doesn't fit any more than my life. Somehow I got myself caught up in the role of protector. Not a part I'd have chosen, but trouble does seem to follow me._

A glance around assured him no one was nearby. Maybe everyone in northern California took their three-hour lunches indoors. Gathering himself, Hiei launched into the nearest tree, and attempted to flick from branch to branch, but his muscles wouldn't coil and release as usual. The stupid costume acted as a ward, as mummy bandages, preventing freedom of movement.

He tried again, failed, then labored forward on foot, peering about for signs of perp or gawkers or autograph hounds.

Hiei had fallen into show biz almost by accident, but soon his one-take abilities commanded the equivalent of eight hundred dollars for a single hour's work, and kept him without a single moment to spare.

And in contact with far too many demanding lunatics.

These weeks here in California had been planned as something of a paid vacation at a five-star resort. At the Kidd Estate, Shay-san would not have to clean house or shop for groceries; as for the twins, Cecilia and Michael could scrub off some of that energy only six-year-olds could muster.

Though the fleeing demon had exhibited a bargain-basement degree of power, it would be a mistake to dismiss him as harmless. Brute force and low cunning always added up to danger.

_So much for a cakewalk._

Aiming for a low branch of another tree, Hiei had to struggle to make the jump. Leaves rustled in protest. He felt less like the natural athlete he was and more like a tortoise pretending to be a monkey. His left inseam popped as he made a second jump. So did a pearl button from the middle of his shirt.

_Rhinestone Beer: Works as hard as you do._

Hiei spotted no sign of the outlaw. But he could still sense its _youki,_ manifesting as an ache in his left temple.

Flinging himself into the branches of an oak, simultaneously popping his right outseam, Hiei at last caught a glimpse of the varmint scrabbling across a road that backed up to the park.

He strove to follow before the perp got out of sight.

_Clothes should fit,_ he thought, scrambling from tree to tree. _Not falling-off loose, not straitjacket-tight. And not make you look like a fugitive from the Chippendale dancers. Which is why tight clothes are a bad idea. It's also a bad idea to leave your katana in the car._

The constricting collar was cutting off Hiei's oxygen supply. _Breathable-French-spandex my ass. Flying-Shadow my ass. _

Breathing was always a good thing. Wedging a forefinger between his neck and the collar, Hiei tugged, scattering two more pearl buttons to the grass below, but at least the collar opened, allowed him to draw breath. He was sweating buckets.

The fleeing _youkai_ ran only as fast as an average human. Ordinarily, Hiei would have been on him in an eyeblink, but none of this scenario was ordinary. The creep had already crossed the road, vaulted a chain-link fence, and scuttled across a parking lot. As Hiei watched, he ducked into a white frame structure.

The structure stood on a crown of land in the middle of a fenced-off area almost as large as the park, and was far enough away that he might have ducked in the front and out the back for all Hiei could tell.

As Hiei labored onward, he drew close enough to read the sign tacked to the fencing:

_Martelli and Sons Development Corp: Black Rock Greens._

A golf course. Wonderful.

Though much of the land had recently been bulldozed, a number of tall specimen trees had been left standing to give the clubhouse that old-school look. The pea-gravel walkways were bordered in fist-sized hunks of black rock, hence the name.

Lush rolls of turf had been laid around the structure. Potted bushes stood on rolling carts near the foundation. Looked like the project was nearing completion.

Near the eastern border of the fence, a lone trailer served as a business office. The parking lot was otherwise empty.

Hiei scrambled down the tree and proceeded on foot. He barely made it across the road and over the chain-link fence before going aerial again.

Overhanging the building was a towering Monterey pine. He slogged toward the tree, hauled himself up the trunk, then settled among its bright-green needles, catching his breath.

The clubhouse looked like the home of a Cape Cod shipping tycoon, but that was California for you.

No sign of the perp emerging from the back of the three-story structure, which was _big._ And not many places in the surrounding area for him to hide. _Must still be inside._

From his perch among resin-scented branches, Hiei thought the club's gray roof offered an inviting target.

The air was still-apart from his wheezing. He opened the button on his faux-spandex pants and drew a breath. Good thing they fit like skin; he could hardly corral a varmint with pants sliding down around his ankles.

Wait, why was he even thinking in those terms?

He was not a cowboy. He did not feel comfortable among horses. He could drive any car or motorcycle ever built, but horses were self-willed.

Shayla Kidd had spent some time on a genuine ranch. She had ridden actual horses and lived to tell the tale. Maybe she should be the one up here in the Dale Evans suit.

_Of course not. What am I thinking?_

He considered his options.

Most likely, this was just some harmless _youkai_ without a Green Card who wanted to break into film as a romantic lead.

Right. And Genghis Khan was a good listener.

The clubhouse exterior was finished. A flagstone walkway, bordered by that same black rock, led to the front door.

Judging from the amount of raw material lying under tarps-studs, duct work, pipes, drywall, lath-the interior was still partly unfinished.

_Maybe this bastard's just a low-level bug who couldn't stand up to a power drill. But if not, the workers inside are in for a problem even duct tape can't handle. _

_Turn back or go in. Now._

In. Same way as the varmint.

Gathering his mummy-wrapped muscles, Hiei leapt from his tree onto the roof, just catching the edge with his fingertips, splitting an underarm seam and his other inseam.

Better. He could move a bit now.

He hauled himself along the gutters hand over hand, then let himself drop to the grass. He straightened, listening. Off to his right came the sharp trill of a northern flicker, but no telltale sounds from within the building.

Red-brown pavers for the front steps. Heavy door of golden oak with a brushed nickel handle. Nice entryway. _Hi, my name is Black Rock. I'll be your doom today._

Hiei tried the door. The handle turned. He slipped inside.

The interior was dim and cool compared to the blazing hot day. It smelled of paint, grout and wood. Sweat began to dry, chilling his skin; he wiped his face with the back of a hand.

They had drywalled the first floor. A wide entry hall, tiled in terra-cotta and still sawdust-specked, led to a big room ahead whose double-wide doors suggested a ballroom or restaurant. Curving oak stairway to the left.

In the sawdust, Hiei saw booted footprints that could have belonged to a dozen perfectly innocent construction workers. Instinct bet on the varmint.

The prints led upstairs.

His mouth dry, he tried to swallow. This set-up was all too reminiscent of the classic Western duel, with the hero walking blindly into a trap set by the villain.

The night before, on learning he was to play a cowboy, Hiei had familiarized himself with the breed, not only reading about cowboys, but subjecting himself to a number of old black and white Westerns until they ran together like a fever dream. In the process he got a fine earful of scorn on fake riding and faker shooting from Shayla Kidd, who could do both.

Contrasting Hollywood's portrayal with the true West somewhat paralleled how _youkai_ at large knew him, as opposed to how his friends and family did: reputation versus reality.

Cowboys had an honor code. So did he. In some places, both codes intersected.

Cowboys never took unfair advantage, even of an enemy. But if someone threatened Hiei's family, all bets were off.

He had nothing in the way of weapons, but clenched his fists. Just those should be enough.

Maybe.

Clothes still slightly hampering his movements, Hiei stole up the stairs. He strained to sense the location of the unknown _youkai_ with its unknown powers.

At the top of the stairs he paused. To the right and left, a long hallway stretched, dotted with openings to indicate entryways to many individual rooms. But though the doorways had been framed out, the doors themselves had yet to be hung, creating a sense of endless cubbyholes in gray drywall.

Lone gunman, striding down a dusty, deserted street lined with hidden foes.

_Dammit, I'm not a cowboy!_

Hiei took his first step into the hall. A board creaked underfoot. Might as well have announced himself through a bullhorn.

But there was an answering squeak, far to his left.

Hiei edged toward the sound. At the end of the hall he slipped through an open door frame into a square room.

At dead center of the room was a massive pillar wired for power outlets. Two tall windows faced the rear of the grounds. Another door frame on the right wall marked an easy exit.

The pang of _youki_ struck Hiei's temple before the flick of movement caught his eye.

Trying to conceal himself behind the pillar was a bulky figure in a trench coat, not much taller than Hiei.

Hiei stalked forward like a panther.

The varmint ducked out from behind the beam, and Hiei came on.

The varmint's black hat, and a black bandana worn as a mask, hid his features from view. But he spoke in a husky, curiously androgynous voice, which could have belonged to either man or woman, and uttered a single word: "Imiko."

Then the _youkai_ fled through the door frame into the adjoining room.

_Imiko:_ Abominable child. That was what the Kourime elder had called him.

Female isolationists in a floating glacial world, the Kourime shunned males. But his mother, Hina, had disobeyed that decree, and Hiei was born. Hina's rebellion became the ice maiden society's excuse for wrapping Hiei in wards like a mummy and pitching him overboard.

The fall alone should have killed him.

Gripped in memories, Hiei froze, his tight clothes pulling at him. The floor seemed to drop from beneath his feet, and he was falling, falling.

_Imiko._

No one knew that name. No one!

Unless-

Was this the Kourime elder herself, come to the human world to wreak her vengeance upon him?

-30-

(To be continued: What is Hiei up against?)


	3. C3: A Bad Day At Black Rock

Please see Disclaimer in Chapter 1

Title: A Cowboy's Work Is Never Done: C3 (A Bad Day At Black Rock)

Author: JaganshiKenshin

Genre: Action/Adventure, Humor

Rating: PG-13 for anime-style fight scenes

Summary: The building is quiet as a grave at high noon, but all hell's about to break loose.

A/N: Hyouga's the official name of the Ice Maiden's realm; the Cadillac Allante was a plush convertible-coincidentally one of the most-stolen cars of the era. Thanks for reading my stories, and I appreciate your reviews!

Hiei's past returns to haunt him

A Cowboy's Work Is Never Done (C3: A Bad Day At Black Rock)

by

Kenshin

Frozen, Hiei watched the varmint disappear through the doorframe without really being aware of it. In his mind, he was back in Hyouga, among the Kourime-

-falling, falling-

_Stop it!_

The man who feels no fear entering battle is a fool. Hiei knew this, to which his pounding heart attested. But he chided himself: _You're no helpless baby plummeting over the cliff. You're a cowboy. Or at least you play one on TV._

He shook himself to clear his head. Somewhere in his shirt another seam popped.

_The name 'Imiko.' That's why he didn't stop when I called out. Doesn't speak English because he's Made-In-Japan._

Or she.

Given Hiei's background, it was only through grace that he did not hate women altogether. He got along with them well enough. But he had never fought a woman.

If this demon in disguise was indeed the Kourime elder-he would make an exception. And win. No one but that amazing bastard Urameshi had ever beaten him in a fistfight.

At any rate, even the Kourime elder was no match for someone with a Black Dragon, a Sword of the Archangel, and a rapidly-vanishing cowboy suit.

Silence was his weapon. Gliding across the floor, Hiei reached the connecting door, stopped, glanced through.

He saw a larger room, a rectangular space some thirty feet long. A bank of windows allowed sun to slash the hardwood floors. There was a strong smell of varnish.

Scattered at the far end of the room was the flotsam and jetsam of construction: tool kits, duct tape, trash bags. Loose tarps, unwired wiring, a door propped flat on two sawhorses. No other connecting door, but one to his right that opened onto the hall. Varmint could have dodged out thataway.

No. A slight ping on Hiei's left temple, of not quite ice pick intensity, indicated the enemy was close at hand.

Movement behind a large, crumpled tarp caught his eye.

This skulking creature knew him well enough to use the title he'd been given at birth. It might also know his other abilities, while he was in the dark about its powers.

Hiei wasn't going for Tenchi no Hi, the Flame of Heaven and Earth. To use such a weapon on a bug like this, a weapon that would leave a crater where the resort once was, constituted overkill. The Dragon might wreak even more havoc.

Think of the paperwork. Think of something simpler.

As Hiei watched, the tarp rose like the swell of a dirty gray sea. From that emerged, not Venus on the half-shell, but the demon, slinking away, muffled in the trench coat that was so loose it was almost a tarp itself.

_Cowboy's got his gun._ Sliding the heavy prop from its holster, Hiei jammed it into his pocket, which split, but managed to contain the gun. As he leapt halfway into the room, he unbuckled the gun belt, cocked his arm, and swung the belt like a lariat at the demon's head.

But it must have sensed his presence. Even as the gun belt whistled, it ducked.

Hiei's blow connected with nothing but tall black hat. The hat sailed in a sideways arc, landed on the flat plane of the sawhorse-propped door. The demon ran for the open doorway.

"Hats annoy me," said Hiei, then flung himself at the _youkai_ and tackled her from behind.

They crashed to the floor, face-down. Hiei caught both the creature's bony wrists in one hand.

_Rhinestone Beer: When you need something stronger than swamp water._

Twisting its arms up behind its body, planting a knee in its back, Hiei scanned the room for some bit of construction debris to tie its arms. But with unexpected strength, the demon popped its arms loose, and turned onto its back. Ready to fight, it slung a fist at him.

Female or not, this varmint was asking for it. Hiei rammed a knee into the creature's chest, pinning her again. He yanked off the bandana that she wore as a mask-and got a good look at the face for the first time.

Warty gray skin. Wide, lipless mouth. Nose two vertical slits. Holes for ears. A few long lank hairs clung like black seaweed from the bullet head. The body beneath him felt like a bean bag chair.

Hardly the Kourime elder, who, though resembling a rawhide chew toy, was at least human in form and feature.

"You!" Hiei gasped, switching to Japanese.

The slanting eyes, black flecked with gold, regarded Hiei with a mix of triumph and apprehension.

Reiraku. One of the Makai thieves who'd 'raised' him.

The room melted away, and Hiei was young again, standing outside the mouth of the thieves' cave, gazing at the cloth they had lowered against him. They had feared him, not without cause. And had finally cast him out.

_Hina! My mother's voice, a thin icy wail as Rui cast me down from Hyouga. Hina, crying for my life to be spared._

The thieves had later found him floating in a river, like Moses. But unlike Moses, Hiei had not been rescued out of a sense of mercy. Nor was he born to lead an entire nation to freedom, but to fight alone.

The thieves had merely wanted his teargem. The one shed by Hina, which Rui had placed around his neck before-

_Reiraku._

The name combined the kanji for nothing, and fall. Indeed, its meaning was 'Downfall.' Not the gang leader, the hulking Heiban, nor even a chief flunky. Just a flunky.

It was the thieves who named him Hiei: Flying Shadow. He sometimes wondered what name Hina would have chosen.

_What's this bastard doing in the human realm?_ "Reiraku..."

"Yeah, me." 'Downfall' peeled back his gray mouth, exposing sharp yellow teeth. "And it's you: the Abomination. See, I done my homework."

Hiei could be forgiven for thinking him female at first; Reiraku's wheezing accordion of a voice had not changed.

"Y'look like a cross between a rodeo clown and a stripper."

"And trench coats don't go with gray skin." It wasn't much but the best Hiei could dredge up on the spur of the moment. After the initial shock, he was merely annoyed. A weak opponent, hardly worth his salt. "What are you doing here?"

A sly look narrowed the gold-black eyes. "Gonna rob the Kidd estate."

"The Kidd Estate?" Hiei spent a minute digesting that. Back home, Kuwabara always said, "If they'll do it with you, they'll do it to you."

Much as he hated agreeing with anything the idiot said, Kuwabara was right.

"Yeah. Kidd Estate. S'prised I know about it?"

"Rob the estate," Hiei repeated.

"Brilliant, yeah?"

"Genius." Paul and Carmel Kidd, Shayla Kidd's uncle and aunt, had always treated him like family. _Oh, you're driving to Palomar again?_ Paul had said to him that morning. _Take the Allante. Or would you prefer the Seville?_ "Absolute genius. I assume you brought a dump truck to haul away the swag?"

"Naah, that kinda bulky stuff's for idiots and losers."

"Really?"

"I figger that ol' lady's gotta have some famous jools that'll make your teargem look like a garden pebble."

'That ol' lady' meaning 50-ish Carmel Kidd, every inch the former beauty queen, making sure the kitchen staff prepared Hiei's favorite foods, calling him 'Sugarplum' when no one else was in earshot. "You really have a way with words."

"Thanks. Don't need no dump truck. All's I need is this coat. It's got pockets inside pockets."

"You thought of everything."

"See? Genius, just like you said. You musta learned a thing or two since you was a brat crawlin' round our cave."

"Maybe."

"Man, this is just like old home week," Reiraku sighed.

"Isn't it."

"So you in or what?"

"Gotta think it over," Hiei said, aping Downfall's speech. "What's in it fer me?"

"I could cut ya in fer, say, ten percent."

"That much?" Hiei gave an incredulous whistle. Dexter was on to something, calling him a method actor.

"Maybe eleven," Downfall assured him.

"You can count that high?"

"Sure, no prob," wheezed the toad.

"Amazing."

"Just one thing, though."

"What's that?"

"Y'kinda got yer knee in my chest."

"Oh." Hiei glanced down. "Right. What was I thinking?"

Sliding his knee up to Reiraku's throat, he pressed it home. "There. Better?"

Reiraku turned a paler shade of gray.

"Now," said Hiei, almost cheerfully. "Let me disabuse you of some cherished notions."

"What the-"

"Rob the estate? The hell you are."

Reiraku leered. "I never got that tear gem offa you. I figure you owe me."

"I don't know whether you've noticed or not, but I have one knee in your throat and the other primed to do worse."

"Yeah, well, that's gonna change real soon."

"So you followed me from Makai to-California?"

"Hey, a guy's gotta show some ambition."

"Why aren't you casing the estate?"

"That comes later. Wanted to be sure it was you first." The black and gold eyes gave a malevolent gleam. "Heard you went soft, turned just about human."

"I'll show you human. I can bust you or I can kill you. Make it easy on yourself and let me kill you."

"Bust me?"

"I see your ears are working."

Downfall laughed, a sound like an ancient, rotting bellows. "Don't tell me that in addition to singin' an' dancin, you're also workin' for Reikai!"

"Why bother? It'll go in one skull-hole and out the other."

"I'm real hurt by that crack. I got plans. Good ones."

"Oh?"

"But you hadda interrupt them."

"That's me. Captain Interruption."

"Just didn't think you'd light out after me so fast," the toad sulked.

"With your ugly face pressed against the window? How could I resist?"

Reiraku gave a convulsive wriggle. "Hey, we raised you from a baby! Of all the ungrateful little snot-nosed-is this how you repay our kindness?"

"I'm just getting started."

"Hey, c'mon, for old time's sake," Reiraku pleaded.

"Speaking of old time's sake, where's the boss? Heiban?"

The toad flicked an evasive glance. "You know. Around."

"In other words, they kicked you out as well."

"Screw you. Now lemme go so I can-"

"Rob the estate? You're an amusing bastard. I have access to everything in it by right, and I'm not inclined to share."

"Hey, don't be stingy!"

Stingy? Back then, Reiraku liked to express his affection for Hiei by dangling bits of food for the hungry baby, then snatching them back beyond reach. And laughing about it.

Hiei said a bad word.

"Oo, learned some fancy talk among the humans, ain't we?"

"How's this for fancy? You annoy me." Scanning the room again, Hiei searched for something to hog-tie the toad.

_A real cowboy would have a rope_.

Reiraku worked a hand loose and aimed a punch at his head. Contemptuously, Hiei canted his head away from the feeble blow and grabbed the toad's wrist, making contact with the unpleasant, damp skin.

Malevolent glee shone in Reiraku's gold-black eyes. While Hiei still gripped his wrist, he squeezed his eyes shut and grunted. A gluey-white substance oozed from his pores.

Ooze touched Hiei's bare skin. Skin hissed and burned. He yelped in pain, reflexively yanking back his hand.

Pitching forward, the toad flung him off. The very flesh of Hiei's palm bubbled, smoked as if dipped in boiling oil.

_So much for easy._

"Even a fire brat like you got no defense against toad venom," Reiraku mocked, scrambling away on all fours.

Hiei scrambled after him, grabbed a fistful of trench coat and yanked the toad back.

Trading punches with Hiei, Reiraku gave as good as he got. Hiei ignored the smoking of his flesh whenever he made contact with toad-ooze.

_No Holy Water or Salt! At least that would stop him._

"Downfall's my name," the toad bragged. "An' seems like I'm gonna be yours."

With a final heave, the toad broke free again, bounced to his feet, and scrabbled for the exit.

Yanking the heavy prop gun from his pocket, Hiei flung it.

_Pop._ The gun struck the back of the toad's head. He went down like a sack of bricks, and Hiei was on him again. But Reiraku fought back, kicking, gouging.

Annoyed, starved, irritated, and burnt, Hiei strove to subdue the toad. They rolled over and over in an out-and-out barroom brawl. One good thing: with his costume in shreds, Hiei regained freedom of movement.

The toad clawed at Hiei's face, the venom raising burns. Hiei backhanded him, collecting more burns.

Snarling, Reiraku clawed at what remained of Hiei's shirt. Pearl buttons popped and pattered onto the toad's face.

Then Hiei's Rosary sprung loose.

Unblessed, a rosary is no more than an inert string of beads. This Rosary, of hand-carved rosewood, had been a gift from Shayla Kidd, who had been given it by her other uncle, noted demonologist Thomas McNeil, a merry-eyed man who somewhat resembled Santa Claus.

Hiei had wanted a weapon. He had one on him, all along. As the Rosary dangled in Downfall's face, Hiei bared his own teeth. "You were saying...?"

"KYAAA!" Revulsion and terror twisted the flat gray features. "Put that thing away!"

"Why?" Alone of virtually all demonkind, Hiei was able to withstand the burning Holy Light that poured from the Rosary. It was suppressing the toad's powers even now, and more; Hiei could feel his wounds being soothed, the skin actually healing over.

The Crucifix nearly brushed Downfall's face. "Does this bug you? It's not touching you."

"Just put it away an' I'll give ya fifty percent!"

"Your kind never learns." Rising, Hiei grabbed Downfall's lank, seaweed hair, and dragged the toad around the room in search of a rope. "Consider yourself lucky. Ever see an angry mob of humans with pitchforks and blazing torches?"

_Duct tape always comes in handy._ Still dragging the toad, Hiei went to a corner, picked up a roll of the tough, silvery substance. He flipped the toad onto his belly, yanked Downfall's hands high up in back of him, ignored the yelp of pain, and taped them together. _Voila._ Makeshift cuffs.

Realizing his predicament, Downfall began spewing curses. Hiei taped the bowed legs together as well, then sat back on his heels, wondering how he would haul the varmint out.

His gaze lit on the black hat with its tall rounded crown.

Obviously the hat wouldn't hold the toad, but it did constitute evidence. If Hiei left it lying around, someone might get suspicious and eventually trace the mess back to Palomar, which would open up a can of worms. He would have to bring it along, with his gunbelt, gun, and scattered pearl buttons.

Downfall's demands for release were getting on his nerves. Grabbing the prop gun, Hiei gave him a light skull-tap, and the toad fell silent. Brute force and animal cunning proved no match for a cheap cowboy suit.

Gathering the other pieces of evidence, Hiei stuffed them into a black plastic trash bag.

Then he retrieved the hat from its perch on the door. For a hat, it was heavy. Too heavy. He turned it over to examine it. Underneath the black brim was fastened something surprising, but when you considered the events of the past fifteen minutes, not altogether unexpected.

_So that's what he had in mind. Maybe not all his plans are completely stupid._

Hiei worked the fastenings off the object in the hat, drew the object out, and stuck it in his one intact pocket.

_Come to think of it-_

Hiei chose a second trash bag. They'd never miss it.

On Hiei's slow and painful way across the greens back to Palomar, no one cast him and his cargo more than a casual glance. Californians were almost as blase as New Yorkers.

Reaching his black convertible, Hiei opened the trunk, retrieved his sword, and placed it in the back seat. Then he let the bag loaded with evidence drop inside the trunk. Heaving the other bag over his shoulder, he let that follow, none too gently.

He opened it. Reiraku was still alive in there. "Oh good," said Hiei, eyeing the rumpled conglomerate of slime and trench coat. "You're awake."

This prompted the toad to resume his lava-flow of curses.

Until Hiei smiled.

Downfall shut up.

"I have something to tell you," Hiei explained.

"Listen, ya half-pint bastard-"

"Seems like I neglected to Mirandize you."

"What the-"

"You have the right to shut your pie hole until I contact Reikai."

Sputtering as Hiei read him his rights, the toad laced his tirade with words Hiei didn't even know existed, and which impressed him despite himself.

"Allow me." Fetching the roll of duct tape, Hiei tore some off and slapped a sticky silver silencer over Downfall's mouth.

0-0-0-0-0

Limping down the concrete steps in tatters, Hiei opened the door to the all-purpose room. Somewhere along the way, he had lost one of his cowboy boots.

Madam Fifi was back from her three-hour lunch. So was the producer Chuck Casio, a white-haired man of middle years who appeared to have been carved from granite.

The pseudo-British director/scriptwriter was there, hidden under his accent. And Dexter, the wiry intern.

They saw Hiei, let out a collective gasp.

"My costume!" bellowed Madam.

Hiei raised an eyebrow. "You were right," he said. "This outfit? It did loosen up when I moved."

Madam Fifi's cigarette dropped to the floor.

"Look on the bright side," Hiei added. "At least you still have the hat."

"That's right, Sir," said Dexter. "We do have the hat!"

Casio retrieved a bottle of antacid from his front pocket and shook a handful into his palm. "Dexter," he growled, crunching the tablets, "Do I really want to know?"

"No, Sir. No, you don't."

"Think this costume can be salvaged?" Hiei wondered aloud.

"You're a wreck!" Madam pointed a shaking finger at Hiei.

He shrugged. "You should see the other guy."

Casio rolled world-weary eyes. "Again, do I really-?"

"No," said Hiei. "No, you don't."

The faux Englishman spoke between chattering teeth. "C-cowboy's out. B-been decided." He proceeded to tell Hiei what exactly was now 'in.'

Hiei listened. "Then I guess you won't need the costume."

Madam Fifi, her face turning the color of strawberry gelatin, gasped, "You've destroyed my best work!"

"Which didn't even FIT." _And I'm no cowboy._ Hiei, behind the prrivacy screen, was already peeling the remnants of the cowboy suit and diving into his own street clothes.

He had lost an important job, and would likely never work for Casio again. His reputation would suffer a hard blow. And he was weary, and starved, and didn't care if Carmel Kidd called him 'Sugarplum' in front of everyone, as long as she fed him one.

Fully dressed, he plowed through the jabbering circus folk, walked to the parking lot, got into the Allante, and drove home.

-30-

(To Be Concluded: There's an 'i' Hiei's forgot to dot and a 't' he forgot to cross.)


	4. C4: Hiei Rides Again

Please see Disclaimer in Chapter 1

Title: A Cowboy's Work Is Never Done: C4 (Hiei Rides Again)

Author: JaganshiKenshin

Genre: Action/Adventure, Humor

Rating: PG-13 for anime-style fight scenes

Summary: Headin' on into the sunset can mean different things according to time and place.

A/N: I have had loads of fun playing with classic Western/Cowboy songs and movies to find the titles of these chaps. As always, thanks for reading this, and I appreciate your reviews!

Hiei's palms bubbled with toad venom. He ignored the wounds.

A Cowboy's Work Is Never Done (C4: Hiei Rides Again)

by

Kenshin

Iron gates sprang open for Hiei.

Unlike Oheka, the famed East Coast estate after which it is fashioned, the home of Paul and Carmel Kidd has no name.

The Normandy-style chateau near Palo Alto features (among other amenities) a lake, two swimming pools, a tennis court, guest houses, cabanas, a recording studio, and the conservatory where Carmel Kidd grows vanilla orchids.

Threading the Allante down the driveway, Hiei thought the estate resembled a drowsy green jewel. Yet the sight failed to cheer him.

The sinking sun glared its disapproval, drained his energy. _Maybe I really should hire out as a rodeo clown._

He steered past the circular driveway toward the back of the estate, where a connecting drive led to the garage.

It was big for a garage. Carmel Kidd called it the 'barn,' though it housed autos rather than equines. Next to it was a stack of cordwood to feed the many fireplaces in the main house.

Hiei brought the car to a halt.

His reaction time down, he had driven back slowly, and had been caught in heavy traffic. Sitting motionless in the car for a couple of hours had stiffened him up, but he only imagined the creaking of his bones and muscles as he got out and limped around to the main entrance. He rang the sonorous bell.

The door opened to reveal Jeeves, the butler. A plumpish man of middling height and years, Jeeves had a pink and well-scrubbed look. Everyone at the Kidd estate treated Hiei like royalty except Jeeves, whose lofty sarcasm and hissing speech brought to mind a cobra who had graduated from Cambridge.

Hiei found the butler's attitude refreshing.

Jeeves lifted one supercilious eyebrow and intoned, "Have we had an _innn_teresting day, Sir?"

"You could put it that way."

"_Could_ we, Sir?" Jeeves stood aside and allowed Hiei entry to the cool marble hall with the air of an Emperor granting an interview to a particularly grubby and unworthy subject.

Toeing off his shoes and leaving them on the doorstep-a Japanese habit he was unable to shake-Hiei trudged past Jeeves. "I know I need a bath. Don't say it."

Jeeves looked down the bridge of his nose. "Sir will most kindly inform us when we may again inhale?"

"Don't wait on my account."

"May we get you an _assss_pirin, Sir?"

"The way my day's been, I'd probably just go into anaphylactic shock and die."

"Have we been getting into the medical tomes again, Sir?"

"Even worse: show biz."

"The family are in the drawing room, Sir, partaking of some pre-dinner libations."

Hiei heard laughter and conversation from an open doorway down the hall. At least someone was having a good day.

Tossing Jeeves his jacket, he went to find the others.

The drawing room featured ankle-tickling cream carpet and walls of sage-green watered silk. Sheer curtains let in the fading afternoon light; candles augmented the illumination.

Numerous chairs snuggled close to the round coffee table, conceding to no particular notion but comfort. They could have been turtle shells for all Hiei cared.

The chairs had people in them: Paul Kidd and Carmel Kidd and Shay-san.

Talking and eating stopped so abruptly that Hiei wondered whether he still wore the cowboy costume.

He must have muttered some sort of greeting, but no one responded. Shay-san had frozen in place, a canape halfway to her lips, her gray eyes just visible under their fringe of fire-colored hair. Paul's blunt, friendly-otter features rounded in surprise; beauty-queen-from-New-Orleans Carmel delicately set down her drink and pretended to fan herself.

Hiei beheld a three-tiered serving cart with a sushi tray and other assorted canapes. The smell of food set his mouth watering. Next to the food a rolling mahogany bar cart offered bottles of bourbon, gin, scotch, and no Rhinestone beer. Decisions, decisions.

Paul Kidd cleared his throat. "You look as though you could use a drink."

"You must be psychic." Hiei collapsed into a club chair the size of Cleveland.

"Oh, just hand him the bottle," drawled Aunt Carmel, cutting to the heart of the matter.

"And something to eat," he murmured.

"Cowboys don't drink," said Shayla Kidd.

"I'm _not_ a cowboy."

Shay-san snagged a bottle of Jim Beam, then took a plate and filled it with bits of sushi and sashimi, along with shrimp and bacon roll-ups. Moving like a well-oiled machine, she deposited everything on the coffee table in front of Hiei. She was not, however, above flashing him a triumphant glint.

"You're one in a million," he murmured. "They ought to ditch Jeeves and give you the job."

"Don't let Jeeves hear you." She poured him a stiff drink.

He looked around again. "Where are Cecilia and-"

"Out playing," she assured him.

Funny that she'd brought him bourbon. He would drink just about anything except sake, but bourbon was a cowboy libation.

While he ate tuna rolls and sipped Jim Beam, the Kidd clan studied him.

At last Shay-san inquired, "How did the costume fitting go?"

He told them.

He waited for the reactions to simmer down.

"Oh, what a shame," Carmel said. "And wouldn't it be just too bad if Chuck Casio woke up tomorrow morning with a horse's head on the pillow next to him."

"Now, dear," admonished Paul. "Severed horse's heads went out of style about five decades ago."

"So did cowboys." Hiei went on to explain that Fake British Accent had taken it into his head to change the scenario.

"The accent that ate his brain." Carmel folded her arms, scowling. "You really are a sort of cowboy, when you come to think of it."

"Gunslinger, more like," said Paul.

"See, _he_ knows the difference," murmured Hiei, as though Madam Fifi was within earshot.

"What did Mr. Accent change it to?" inquired Carmel.

"Dancing beer bottles."

"Goodness."

"In outer space."

"I sincerely hope it won't be a location shoot," said Paul.

"I doubt they have the budget," grumbled Hiei.

"Wonderful." Shay-san retrieved the bottle and poured a sip of Beam for herself, then settled onto the arm of Hiei's chair. "I can see it all now. You, stuffed into a turkey-roaster bag, with a fishbowl over your head. What could possibly go wrong?"

"But then again I'm not on it any more."

"Too bad they didn't send a camera chasing after you when you collared that outlaw," mused Carmel.

"_They_ didn't," said Hiei, but before he could explain about Downfall and his hat, he realized something, and stopped. And pried himself out of the cushy chair.

"What now?"

"Forgot something from the car."

"Send Jeeves."

"Not on your life."

Reaching the Cadillac Allante, Hiei retrieved his sword from the back seat, then slid it into his belt. Next he went around and popped the trunk.

Neither of the black plastic garbage bags was moving, but neither was there any reek of cooked toad, so he loosened the ties on the overstuffed one and peeled back the opening.

Disheveled, sweaty, hair now like dripping strands of black slime, Downfall regarded Hiei with a mix of fear and loathing.

"Damn if I didn't forget all about my passenger."

Downfall did not reply.

"Oh, right." Hiei leaned forward, grabbed the duct tape covering the toad's mouth, and tore it loose. A stream of obscenities was his reward.

Hiei waited for the curses to die down, then Downfall blinked, and looked around. And grinned earhole-to-earhole.

"Ya brought me here after all? To the estate? Guess y' musta reconsidered my offer."

"No. I temporarily forgot you were in the trunk."

"You brought me here an' you're not gonna let me get nothin'?" The gold-black eyes narrowed. "You better reconsider, and fast."

"What for?"

"Think you're so damn tough?" Licking his unpleasant lipless mouth, Downfall wheezed, speaking fast, as though fearful of being cut off. "Maybe I ain't the strongest youkai but little girls are so-soft. Fragile, like."

The blood chilled in Hiei, head to toe.

"I swear it, even if it takes me forever-"

_Cecilia!_ Hiei reacted like lightning. He grabbed the toad by his thick, slippery throat, heedless of the smoking burns that rose wherever the venom hit his skin. Squeezing. His hand like iron. The toad's shouts and curses soared past him.

He was thinking.

_Give in to a blackmailer, gain a friend for life._ The use of lethal force could be justified here, and Hiei was authorized to use it. Not encouraged. Not compelled. Authorized.

He could do it. Snap the monster's neck. Immolate him. A brief stink, then nothing but a bad memory.

He could do it. But.

Mercy was a concept he had not known until recently. Not from the Kourime, not from the thieves. His introduction had begun with meeting Urameshi Yuusuke. Mercy and trust.

Both hands round the toad's neck now. His palms bubbled and smoked from venom. He ignored the pain.

The concept of mercy did not fit him naturally. It was still a struggle. Were cowboys merciful?

No. He was no cowboy. Didn't even play one on TV.

He looked at the toad, struggling under the pressure of his smoking hands.

Had to make the call.

No one would miss this bastard. No one would blame him. Though there was mercy, there was also such a thing as painting a target on a little girl's back. His little girl. Unacceptable.

Had to make the call.

He dropped the toad. "You just signed your own death warrant." Hiei turned and walked toward the 'car barn,' where he paused to select a heavy chunk of oak cordwood.

"You ungrateful bastard!" shouted Downfall, then paused to choke and spit. "We raised you from a tadpole! You owe us!"

Hiei carried the log back to the car. Downfall snarled, "You _bit_ me back then, y' puny bastard! Always bitin' me!"

"I can do worse now." Hiei tossed the log into the air. Faster than the toad could track, he drew his ringing katana. It flashed in the waning light as he swung, connected with the wood, split it. Hiei smacked the sword back in its saya before the pieces thudded to the ground.

"Solid oak." Hiei nodded at the log chunks. "Imagine what this sword could do to you."

Downfall turned the color of chalk. "H-hold on. We can make a deal!" The toad had seen enough of Hiei's crude yet effective swordsmanship back in the cave days, and he had just been treated to a display of advanced pyrotechnics.

"Deal? How's this?" Hiei shifted, the black saya glowering in the setting sun. "I kill you right here, right now. Drag you from the car, turn you into sashimi."

The toad's eyes bulged.

"You said I owe you. Wrong. You owe me. And I would love to pay you back for all those times you tormented me when I was too small to fight. Got me a sword thirsty for toad guts, and I really want to do just that, because you chewed up my last nerve and spit it out."

The gold-black eyes rolled in fear.

Hiei took a deep breath. "But I've changed a little. Rejoice."

"I should rejoice because...?"

"Because I already ate a tuna roll." Reaching into his pocket, Hiei retrieved what looked like an ordinary cell phone and pressed a button. "And since you're in California's jurisdiction, meet an American ferry girl."

"Ferry girl? B-b-but I ain't dead yet!"

"Not _just_ yet." Hiei was no psycho, but he had more than merely played one on TV. And that reputation preceded him. In his best Kourime-icy manner, he said, "If you even try to make good your threat, I won't spare you." He gave a sword-cut of a smile. "After what I'll do to you, you will beg for death."

"N-n-o-p-p-please-"

There was a crack of brilliant light. Then the throaty roar of a Harley Hog.

When Hiei's eyes adjusted to the light, he saw a strapping woman of about forty, with a pale square face under her towering cone of blue hair. She wore a black leather vest that not only left her arms bare but no doubt that she could take Madam Fifi two falls out of three. Her candy-apple Harley purred like a lion as she regarded them with keen interest.

He had been briefed about her.

"Downfall... Erna," Hiei said. "Erna, Downfall."

With a voice surprisingly sweet and girlish, Erna said, "Aww, he's kinda cute." Her grin revealed three gold teeth. "I collect toads, you know. Shelves and shelves of them. Yellow porcelain ones wearing little tea hats. Green ones leaning on a lamp post. Terra cotta ones sitting underneath toadstools."

"How appropriate," said Hiei, translating for both Erna and Downfall at once.

Downfall gulped profoundly.

Erna clucked in sympathy over Hiei's burns. "Lemme get those for you." From her cupped palms came a small sphere of cooling light, which hovered for a moment over Hiei's hands, then sank in. The relief was immediate. The burns vanished.

"This varmint's all yours, Erna." Hiei proceeded to read off the list of charges, beginning with unauthorized travel into the human world and ending with threats against a human minor.

"You betcha. He's so cute I'll even do the paperwork."

"Much oblige, Ma'am."

Erna twisted the handlebars of the hog, drawing from it another full-throated roar as Hiei shoved the toad back into the trash bag and re-tied it. Yanking the bag from his trunk, he let it thud to the ground. Downfall uttered a stream of curses.

"Don't you make me wash your mouth out with kerosene, little fella!" Erna reached down with one meaty hand. Catching the bag by the neck, she slung it over the seat in front of her. Then she and her cargo both vanished in that same bright flash.

Hiei closed the trunk and leaned on it wearily.

He stood a while facing west, watching the sun set. It looked like a scoop of orange sherbet melting into the ocean.

Kurama, cool and tough, friend and ally, always said, 'If you travel far enough West, you end up East.'

_I think I know what he means._

Off to the right, where the tennis court lay beyond the car barn, he could hear the _pock, chuff, pock_ of a game in progress: Cecilia and Michael at play. He took a few steps toward the court, intending to watch, but he turned back. It was enough to know that they were safe.

He headed for the front door instead. Jeeves let him in, but could not resist another inquisition. "Was that a motorcycle engine we just heard, Sir?"

"Motorcycle engine?" Hiei managed a scandalized look. "Maybe we need to get our ears lavaged."

"We beg your pardon, Sir?"

"Dive into the medical tomes, Jeeves. It means-"

"We _know_ what it means, Sir."

He departed for the drawing room before Jeeves could inquire after his sword.

Hiei settled down and took another drink. With his accelerated metabolism, the bourbon wouldn't even make a dent unless he chugged the entire bottle, but he liked its flavor, and the way it warmed his throat. Then he said to Paul and Carmel Kidd, "I failed you."

"How's that?" Paul said.

"Lost the job you snagged me."

"But you stopped a thief," Shay-san reminded him.

"Should have been able to do both."

Carmel Kidd tilted her head with an engaging squint. "Isn't that sword a bit uncomfortable?" she inquired.

Hiei had barely noticed. "Maybe I ought to fall on it."

"Maybe you ought to finish that bottle," advised Paul. "Then start on another."

Before Hiei could properly consider the notion, a maid came in with a phone. "Call for you, Sir."

Hiei picked it up and listened a while in silence, aware that plates had poised in mid-air, glasses were being coastered, eyes were upon him. Then he grunted and hung up.

He waited as the maid took the phone away. He waited until he had everyone's full attention, which took approximately three-quarters of a nanosecond.

"That was Dexter," he informed them. "The intern."

"The intern?" Paul exchanged puzzled glances with Carmel. "Why's the intern calling here?"

"Dexter showed Casio the footage. Casio loves it."

"Footage?"

"Dexter's going to direct."

"Direct?"

"Is there an echo in here? All he needs is one pick-up shot: me, drinking the product at a bar. They can even use the costume as is. Madam Fifi conceded it looked 'more rugged' that way. Then a voice-over saying 'When a cowboy has a bad day, Rhinestone Beer rides to the rescue."

Carmel took up the role of echo. "Pick-up shot?"

"But no sound. They're going to edit it down to fit the commercial time slot and loop in the dialogue after."

"Loop?" This time, the echo came from Shay-san.

"You know." It was his turn to glint at Shayla Kidd. "Loop. Adding dialogue on top of screen footage."

She took another sip. "I know what looping is."

"Usually done just to pick up a flubbed line or two rather than re-shooting the entire scene," he said. "Saves money."

She put down her glass with a clack. "I KNOW WHAT LOOPING IS."

"I love looping," Hiei said, as though nothing had happened. "Nice air-conditioned studio. No costumes." At last, he explained the entire situation, beginning with the fact that Reiraku had brought a tiny video camera hidden in his hat, planning to case the estate before committing his robbery. But when Hiei had knocked the hat onto the door, that had set the recorder running, and it was running throughout the entire battle. Every minute, caught on tape.

He had left the camera in his costume, and Dexter had found it, and viewed the footage.

"Looping." Hiei turned to Shay-san. "They might have a job for you, too."

"Oh, really?" she purred, leaning closer to him.

"They need someone to voice Downfall. Think you can do a kind of mincing-psycho bad-guy?"

She shot him a scornful, gold-flame look. "Can I _breathe?_"

"Ch. Rhetorical question."

Nibbling her lower lip, Carmel Kidd looked down at her drink. "I hate to be a wet blanket, but there's a problem."

Hiei lifted an eyebrow at her. "As in-?"

"A demon," she explained, "caught on-camera. And I don't mean _you._"

Shayla Kidd stepped in. "I'll have a little chat with the crew. They can digitally humanize him. By the time I'm done, they'll think the toad was just some ugly actor with an expired visa."

She could do it, too. She was a very persuasive Spellcaster. Part of her job consisted of damage control.

While the Kidd clan congratulated him, Hiei sipped firewater. It suited him after all. Didn't cowboys always get their man? Maybe he was a cowboy. A cowboy with a sword and not a gun. And maybe this life fit him just fine, like the costume did after he busted a couple of seams.

"So you lassoed the varmint and saved the shoot," summarized Carmel, lapsing into cowboyspeak with evident relish.

"I don't know how you pull this sort of thing off time and again," said Paul.

Hiei shrugged. "A cowboy's work is never done."

-30-

(Thanks for reading this tale. Now please scroll down for a brief preview of the next tale in this trio.)

From: Once Upon A Time In The West

by

Kenshin

The horse stank. A combination of manure and sweat, sharp and ammoniac. It made Hiei vaguely nauseated-or maybe it had been the buffet breakfast a couple of hours ago. The Spencers kept a few saddle animals on their cactus 'ranch,' so the equine odor was familiar to Hiei.

He could only assume the horse felt the same way about him.

Turning away from the horse, he took a step toward the barbecue pit. A six-pack sounded good to him, even if it was Rhinestone Beer.

But a sharp pain that had nothing to do with the horse's proximity pierced his temple. Youkai!

He turned in the direction of the pain. The accompanying ki was unfamiliar to him, but powerful.

"He's lathering up," said Ronni. "What's wrong with him?"

The horse pinned back his ears and bared his long yellowish teeth; Ronni held the reins and spoke soothing words.

Often, Hiei moved without first understanding why. Call it instinct. Whirling, he shoved Ronni out of the way just as the horse struck out with his flint-hard hooves.

Ronni reeled backward, out of the horse's reach. A hoof connected with Hiei's right shoulder.

There was a flash of hot pain, then Hiei's arm went numb.

With a shrill, almost-human scream of fear, the horse reared. He spun. Then, trailing his reins, he thundered across the paddock.

"Stop him!" Shayla Kidd was already running in the horse's direction, but Hiei grabbed her and pulled her back.

Shay-san had a good enough sixth sense. Their glances crossed. She had felt the aura, too.

In a soaring leap, the horse cleared the paddock fence, then galloped off toward the foothills-in the direction of the youkai.

(To be continued-soon.)


End file.
